


California, 1988

by WitchcraftAndTrickery



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Kindergarten, Parents & Children, School, Teacher-Student Relationship, Weechesters, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:47:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchcraftAndTrickery/pseuds/WitchcraftAndTrickery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shelley Matthias loved her job. John Winchester loved his job too. But he also kinda hated it. Wee- Winchesters, mainly Sam, from the viewpoints of their father and school teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	California, 1988

Shelley Matthias loved her job. She’d worked in Cherry Tree Elementary, California, for seven years now, and it seemed that every day brought something new. What else could you expect, teaching first graders? One day they could wonder why butterflies were blue, and the next day ask in deadly seriousness where their baby sister had come from. It was something to give back, she always said.

That day had been nice. Normally, Shelley would have reprimanded her children from describing something as ‘nice’ – “Why would you want to use a word as boring as that when there are so many others you could try?” – but that was, really, the only way she could have described it. The April sun had been shining brilliantly through the wide windows, lighting up the paintings and scrawled messages and semi-deflated balloons decorating the walls. The sky had been blue, the birds had been singing, and the principal had even allowed her to take the children out to see the baby frogs in the school pond.

Yes. It had been a nice day.

It was nearly the end of the school day itself, and the class of buzzing six-year-olds were busy writing. It had been a simple task, one that she had done time and time again with other classes. It improved their vocabulary, their communication, their written skills, and their handwriting. And, even better, it gave Shelley a small glimpse into their little lives – it was so easy to forget that these were not just pupils, children, numbers and names at roll call, but miniature humans. Little people who would one day grow up and have their own jobs, their own families, their own lives.

Shelley smiled as she leant over a little girl with thick, curly blonde pigtails. She was concentrating hard, the tip of a tiny tongue poking between her teeth in thought. “How are you getting on, Jessie, honey?” asked Shelley, smiling at the Technicolor crayon beneath the scribbles.

Jessie looked up, both blue eyes and smile wide. “Yup,” she affirmed, nodding so vigorously her pigtails bounced. “I drew a picture too!”

“You did!” chuckled Shelley. “Who’s this?” And she motioned to a stick figure wearing a blue triangle, its pink circle face festooned with daffodil yellow springs.

The little girl looked pleased with herself. “That’s Mommy,” she announced, proudly, pointing a chubby finger at her drawings. “And that’s Daddy, and that’s me. And that’s Spike . He’s our cat. And here’s where we live.” She drew the same finger across the wobbly writing atop the page, speaking slowly and carefully. “My fam-ill-ee.” She looked up at her teacher, expectantly.

“That’s beautiful, sweetie,” praised Shelley, smiling at the little girl. “You know what I think?” Jessie shook her head, curls bouncing. “I think,” Shelley continued, “that it’s even good enough to go on the wall.”

Jessie gasped, and giggled in glee. That was when Shelley noticed another head, a small dark one with large hazel eyes, peeping out from over its own book. It was the new boy, she pondered momentarily. A quiet little guy, whose family had only been in the neighbourhood for a few weeks. As far as Shelley was aware, the family kept to themselves. She’d never seen the boy outside of school, or even any parents coming to pick him up from the school gates. No, it was only ever his brother, he himself only in fifth grade, who waited for him. Strange.

The boy suddenly noticed Shelley’s gaze, and quickly averted his eyes back to his paper. She could have sworn that there had been something alike to curiosity in his stare. Before she could react, however, she felt a gentle tug on the end of her hair, and looked down to see Jessie’s blue gaze on her, troubled.

“Miss Matthias,” she whispered, somewhat conspiratorially, “I think Sam’s lonely.”

“What do you mean, honey?”

“He never plays with us at lunch,” she continued, solemnly. “I’d like him to play with us. He’s nice.”

Shelley looked up again at the boy. Sam Winchester. Yes, she saw what little Jessie meant. The boy did seem lonely.

“Hey, sweetie,” she murmured, catching his shoulder lightly and leaning over. “How are you doing?” Sam shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Thanks,” he added, somewhat hurriedly. Shelley looked down to see what he had written.

  
_My Family by Sam ~~Winces~~ Winchester _   
_My family is very small. There is just me and ~~Deen~~ Dean and daddy. Daddy works alot so dean and me stay together alot. Dean is my big brother. He is ten years old and he is alot bigger than i am. My daddy is very big he is even bigger than Dean and he used to be in the army. We drive arond around alot in daddy’s car which is black and dean says its ~~corled colled~~ called an impalla. I sit in the back and dean sits in the front with daddy ~~becos becase~~ because he is older. Dean likes to listen to daddys music. Daddys favorite band is called led zeppelin and dean likes them too. I have an uncle Bobby who is daddys ~~frend~~ friend but we don’t see him very much because he lives far away.  
One day i woud like to have a mommy because dean says ours was very nice but I dont remember her because Daddy says she dyed when i was little. But I love my big brother very much and I love my daddy too._   


“Is this your work, Sam?” asked Shelley, her voice catching as she read the neat, childish script. The little boy nodded, his eyes downcast. Beneath his writing was a small picture in pencil of a tall figure and two smaller ones standing beside a long black car. Shelly pointed to it. “This is Daddy’s car?”

Sam nodded. “Mm-hm. And that’s Dean,” he added, pointing to the lighter-haired small stick man. “And that’s me. And that’s Daddy.” He sat back, gazing at the teacher almost curiously. “Daddy’s very tall.”

“You said,” said Shelley, nodding at his work. Then, out of pure curiosity, she added, “What does your daddy do, sweetie?”

Sam’s small eyes narrowed momentarily in a way she’d never seen a child do unless they were hiding something. Usually something they were told not to tell, and they were debating whether or not you were worthy of sharing with. Strange how a six-year-old could make you feel as if your soul was being weighed in their eyes. Eventually the boy shrugged. “I dunno,” he sighed. “He works at night and Dean just says he’s busy.”

Shelley’s brows furrowed. For some reason, the simple phrase struck her as almost sinister. She brushed the feeling aside, hurriedly. She’d never even met the boy’s father. There was no reason to doubt – the man probably worked some strange engineering shift, or something, which meant he travelled often. She quickly covered her discomfort as she noticed Sam watching her, cautiously.

“That’s very good work, Sammy, hon.”

The boy shrugged. “I like writing,” he mumbled. “I like reading, too.”

“I’ve seen you in the reading corner, with Dr Seuss,” said Shelley, settling down beside him. “Do you like those?” Sam nodded eagerly. Shelley’s eyes wandered back to the paper. We drive around a lot in Daddy’s car. She wondered, briefly, if Sam had any books of his own.

“I like those, too,” came a cheerful voice from across the table. Shelley looked up to see Jessie, grinning welcomingly at Sam in the way that only little girls seemed able to do. “My favourite’s Green Eggs and Ham.”

Sam’s small face seemed to brighten. “It’s mine, too!” he gasped, seemingly shocked at this revelation of sharing something was someone else. As Jessie began chatting about her favourite books – some of which Shelley was sure she couldn’t possibly have really read at her age – Sam seemed drawn in, until he was leaning across the table, eyes wide and mouth agape as excitement took over his voice.

Shelley smiled, and left the pair to it. It would be nice for little Sam Winchester to have a friend. From what his work told her, it seemed as though he already had too little.

 

* * *

 

John Winchester loved his job. But he also kinda hated it.

He loved the thrill of the chase, the exhilaration of combat, the raw power you felt from the kill. He hated the look in Sammy’s eyes when the kid knew he was lying, the fear on Dean’s face when he came home late, the dead man’s blood that never really washed out of his clothes. He was a father, for God’s sake. His boys needed him. But John needed his job, and his job needed him, too. It wasn’t something like football or baseball, something you did because you enjoyed it. It was something you did because you had to. Because if you knew, you had to act. Because John Winchester was a man broken by a mad vengeance.

It wasn’t as if, either, he didn’t know. Jesus, he knew too well. He saw the disapproving looks Bobby gave him, the hopeless roll of Bill’s shoulders when he saw the boys in the back of the Impala before a hunt. It was alright for them. Bobby didn’t have kids, even if he knew what losing your wife was like. And Bill – Bill had Ellen, and little Jo. Surely that was worse? Going out to hunt when you left both your girls at home? What if he never came back? What would happen to them, then? John guessed that was why he always took his boys with him. If they were there – even if they were tucked away in a cheap motel – he knew where they were. They were safe.

Right now, John’s hands were clenching the steering wheel with white knuckles as he watched the house before him. _Crawley, California. Every few weeks since last November. Someone goes into this house, and blows their brain out._ Bobby had been unconvinced, dismissing the old house as nothing but a popular suicide spot. But John had spent nearly two months in the insular little town – far too long – and he knew that these were not the people to just pull the trigger on themselves. There was something wrong.

Yeah, they’d spent too long in town. John knew that it was tonight to banish the son of a bitch and tomorrow to skip town, or never. He’d only stayed this long for Sammy. Dean couldn’t really care less about school – kid spent more time out of it than in, and John was too preoccupied to care, usually – but Sammy… He was different. John’s youngest loved learning. Books, car manuals, newspapers, John had even caught the six-year-old with his hunting journal once; anything he could get his chubby little fingers on. And for some reason, that was the one thing he felt the kid deserved. It’s what Mary would have wanted, right? Sammy wasn’t old enough to choose what he wanted yet, why not give him a chance at normalcy while he was young? Still… Something John made certain Dean knew was that ‘normal’ was not something relative to their lives.

“ _We’re not like other folks, Dean. We got a job to do. A real important job. And it’s up to us to get it done, ‘cause no one else can. Got it? And one day – when you’re older, you an’ Sammy’ll do it too. This is who we are._ ”

A real important job. God, how he wished it were that simple. It was a real important job, no doubt about it, but sometimes… Hell, John wondered if it was worth it. Those sometimes usually came about around three a.m., while the boys slept on crappy cardboard beds in cheap dives in bad neighbourhoods, and the hunt showed no signs of letting up. Those were the times John found himself slumped in front of meaningless TV, a cheap beer in hand and the world on his shoulders. Those were the times when he questioned if the thing that killed Mary was even still out there. But when you knew the things that happened… When you’d seen what hid in the shadows… You had to do something. Even if that something involved dragging your kids across the country to hunt the sons of bitches down.

John sighed. _This is who we are_. Funny. He guessed it was kinda pathetic when you couldn’t even equate yourself with anything more than your job. Hell, why did he even call it a job? It wasn’t like he got anything out of this. You got cash from a job, you got fulfilment, you got promotions. What did you get from hunting? Scars and shit all else, except maybe mistrust and even more rage: rage at the supernatural, at other people, at yourself. And yet, he hadn’t lied to his son. _This is who we are_. Hunting wasn’t something you chose. It was something that chose you. It was, to John’s mind, the only thing you could never control. Otherwise, he had never believed in fate, or destiny, or any such crap – a man made his own choices. Vietnam had taught him that much. When you saw men die every day, soldiers barely even men, whose only wrong move was to catch a tripwire with a boot toe, you stopped believing that someone was watching you. When you found your wife pinned to the ceiling, her stomach slashed, her blood dripping down in some macabre Morse code, you stopped believing that someone was watching you.

Mary.

She was never far from his thoughts. He’d tried – Christ, had he tried – to do what Bobby advised. _Remember her as she was. From before_. Mary, young and beautiful, inviting him to meet her parents. Mary, radiant and glowing, saying “I do”. Mary, tired yet happy, holding a sleeping baby Dean, no bigger than John’s forearm. Mary, laughing and proud, holding up a wide-eyed Sam for his brother to inspect. Mary, scared and agonised, pinned to the roof, flames erupting from her back –

_No no stop no don’t think about that_. Not now. It didn’t do to let your mind wander on the hunt.

Hell, what had he been doing for half an hour, then?

Yeah, there were times when John loved his job. Times like saving those kids from the shtriga. Times like exorcising the demon from that young preacher. Times like sharing a well-earned can or three – no doubt all spiked liberally with holy water – with Bobby after a long chase. But it was the look on Sammy’s face when he’d come home that afternoon, beaming and shouting that he’d made a new friend, that hurt.

 John Winchester loved his job. But most of the time, he hated it.


End file.
